Eyes
by TheNextFolchart
Summary: Your eyes look haunted, almost dead, even though you're not the one lying on the floor, and even later, even years later, they never go back to normal. /Written for the numerous competitions on HPFC


_[Cinema Competition: Lovely Bones - write about death; "He didn't understand how much a father could love his child."]_

_[Fanfiction Categories Competition: Flame - write about a bully.]_

_[Gemstone Competition: Amethyst - write about someone gaining or losing power.]_

_[Star Light, Star Bright: Supernova - write about something that takes place during the Second Wizarding War]_

_[Quelf Competition: Write about envy, with a word count of 1,111 words using the John Green quote, "Thomas Edison's last words were 'It's very beautiful over there'. I don't know where there is, but I believe it's somewhere, and I hope it's beautiful" for inspiration.]_

_Word count: 1,111_

* * *

You are ten years old and you are pale-skinned and dark-haired and your eyes have this _determination _that makes people flinch.

You don't know where you got those eyes. They could have been from your father, who you've never met, or your mother, who died the day you learned to live, or they could have been from somewhere else, like fate or destiny or God, if you believed in that sort of thing. All you know is that you can make people nervous just by looking at them, and it's fun, and you like doing it, even though you've been taught that bullying is bad.

(And bullying isn't bad compared to some things. It's better than murder.)

* * *

You are thirteen years old and you are taller than nearly everyone else your year, and the girls flock to you even though you aren't interested in snogging. You still have those eyes, but they're subtler now. You've moved on from the days of flashing quick glares. You prefer to gaze, to let your eyes linger and drift over people, as if you're judging every inch of them, because it makes people sweat and tug at their robes and in a way, that's better than watching them jump.

Nobody's afraid of you here, though. They're wary, sometimes, but for the most part they just admire you and mimic you and envy your every talent.

(The children at the orphanage, they used to be terrified. And you find yourself missing it.)

* * *

You are fifteen and you're soaking wet and you're starting to panic, just a little, because there is a dead girl at your feet and you're fairly certain you killed her.

Myrtle was her name, you think. She was in Ravenclaw, one year behind you, and she was loud and awkward and not particularly popular and now she's just _dead._

You don't touch her, not with your hands, but you roll her over with your foot until she's lying on her back, with wide bespectacled eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw for lying around," you say, hoping she'll jump up and argue with you, but she doesn't, she really is gone, and it's your fault, you're the one who let the monster out of the Chamber of Secrets, you're the one who didn't check to make sure it was empty. . . .

"Twenty points from Ravenclaw?" you try.

She doesn't stir.

You turn away from her body, her corpse, her shell, her _dead empty skin_ and lean over the sink. Your heart is beating too hard. You feel dizzy, but you can't faint, not here, because what'll they say if they find you here, what'll they _think_?

You spray cold water on your face and then stare at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes look haunted, almost dead, even though you're not the one lying on the floor, and even later, even _years _later, they never go back to normal.

But you've always been good at hiding things, so you exit the bathroom and go back to your Common Room, and that night when Dippet announces the news you act just as shocked as the rest of them.

(That year, Ravenclaw is 29 points shy of winning the House Cup.)

* * *

You are sixteen, and your eyes are still hollow but they're also filled with _hunger, _because you have a plan and you're on your way to carry it out, and Dumbledore's voice is in the back of your mind telling you to reconsider, but you ignore him, because you've finally found your father and you're going to kill him.

When you knock on the door and he comes to answer, he looks startled to see you. He _must_ know who you are - you two look the same. Same hair, same skin, same lips, same height.

(But not the same eyes, not even close, and now you know you must have gotten them from your mother's side, because this man does not have determination or ambition in his eyes, he has _fear_, and you have never been afraid in your life.)

"Can I help you?" your father asks, and you nod.

"I was hoping you could answer a question for me," you say, and your heart is racing, but it's not with panic, it's with _anticipation_.

"Do I know you?"

You shake your head. "Do you have any children?" you ask, and you can see him itching to close the door in your face, and you want to explode with laughter because _finally _you're going to have your revenge on the man who left you.

"No," he says too quickly. "I don't."

"If you did," you say, "would you love them?" You have your wand out now, you're twirling it between your fingers, and your father (_not for long_) is staring at it like he's never seen one before (_yes, he has_).

"I - of course. I think?"

You can't keep the grin off your face. "How much would you love your child, Mr. Riddle?"

"A lot! I would love it a lot!"

"Would you hold your child at night when he was scared?" you whisper, and you let your eyes rake over him slowly, like you've practiced a thousand times. "Would you tell him everything would be okay?"

"Who are - "

"Or would you leave your child in a _shack _and let someone else raise him?" You're stepping over the threshold, and he's shrinking back.

"Get out of - "

"Ah, but how would you know?" you say quietly. "How could you understand how much a father could love his child? You don't have any children."

"I'll give you money," he begs, eyes wide. "I'll give you anything. Don't hurt me!"

"Oh, it's not going to hurt," you promise. "_Avada kedavra._"

* * *

You are fifty-four years old and your eyes are dark and icy, and no matter where they look all they can see is ugliness. Every ignorant Muggle is a stain on the world - _your world._

You know the world used to be beautiful, back when it was untouched by the greed of man. It stands to reason, then, that somewhere, deep beneath the piles of human filth struggling to survive without magic, its beauty must still exist. Someone just needs to scrape off the rust. Someone needs to do some _cleaning_.

They all have to go.

Every Muggle, and Muggleborn, and Halfblood, and Half-breed -

And once they're gone, once all of that long lost beauty is restored to the world, you will be hailed as a hero.

And then maybe your eyes will stop _aching._

* * *

You are seventy-one years old.

And your eyes,

For some reason,

Will

Not

Open

Anymore.


End file.
